


Catch Me, Heal Me, Lift Me Back Up

by edenbound



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Incest, M/M, Masochism, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Dean just needs this, and there's no one else he can trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Me, Heal Me, Lift Me Back Up

The first time Sam saw Dean like this, he wanted to run away. It was, he thinks, a perfectly acceptable reaction -- even a predictable one, an expected one. Seeing his own brother tied up, cut, bleeding, moaning for more, gagged... But his reasons for running weren't what he expected. He wanted to run because it hit him right in the stomach, made a jet of pure heat shoot up his spine, filled his mind with nothing but want and made him hard right there, right away. Dean looked up at him, his eyes wide and lost, and moaned, and came. And then the guy he was with hit him, because he hadn't been allowed to come...

And Dean had moaned around his gag, jerked, and his eyes had fixed themselves on Sam's: _Understand me,_ he'd been saying, somehow, even tied up and gagged. And Sam had. Against his will, he'd understood.

He'd watched, that time. He should have run away, maybe, but Dean didn't seem to want him to and the guy who was there, he didn't say anything. Maybe he even liked someone watching. Sam wondered why Dean was prepared to trust the guy, at the time. Afterwards, he realised -- Dean had always intended for Sam to walk in on it, to see him like that, to stay and protect him against anything he didn't want happening.

The next time he saw Dean on his knees was months later. They hadn't talked about it. The guy had just walked out, without a word to Sam, and left him to untie Dean's bonds. He had, filled with an odd tenderness at seeing his big brother so broken down. He'd helped him to the shower. And that had been the end of it: when Dean walked out of the bathroom, he was wearing his usual clothes, his jeans, his boots, his shirt, his jacket. And his usual cocky expression.

It was almost like there were two Deans.

When Sam walked in to see Dean kneeling down by the door, already naked, he understood what Dean had wanted him to see. He took a deep breath. "Dean?"

"Sammy," Dean had said, his voice cracking.

"No," he'd said, tangling a hand in Dean's short hair, pulling hard. "Not when you're like this."

Dean took a sharp deep breath, licked his lips. "Sir?" he tried. Sam had shook his head. Dean's cock had jerked, then, when he realised, and he'd almost moaned it. "Master."

"Yes," Sam had said.

"Master," Dean says, now. He's on the bed, not on the floor. But it's the same thing. Sometimes, Dean just needs this. That's what Sam was meant to understand. Sometimes, Dean just needs this, and there's no one else he can trust. No one else who can be allowed to see him break open, no one else who _can_ lever open his shell and expose the tender insides. Except maybe Dad, and Sam doesn't want to ask about that, doesn't want to know. Dean is his now, his responsibility, and that's all he wants to know.

"It's alright, Dean," Sam says, closing the door behind him. "Do you have anything specific you want to ask me for?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing, master. Just -- do what you want."

"I'd do that anyway," Sam says, and he's amazed at how steady he's learnt to sound. He thinks he might sound something like their father right now. He hasn't quite got that force, that growl, that edge, but he's learnt something of it. Enough to make Dean tremble. He crosses the room and grips the back of Dean's neck, hard, digging his fingers in. "You've been a bad boy since the last time we did this," he says. "You nearly got yourself killed. You scared me."

Dean's eyes dip closed and then open again. "I'm sorry," he says. There's a hint in his voice still of the Dean everybody knows, a hint of brotherly exasperation. _Sam, I was fine, you're just overreacting..._

Sam cuffs him round the side of the head. "You're sorry."

"Very sorry," Dean says, and his hands twitch. He wants to reach for Sam. "What do you want me to do to make up for it, Sam?"

"Sam?"

"Master," Dean says, and he looks up, his eyes clear and focused. He's honed in on the moment now, slipped into his role. "Master. What should I do for you? What do you want me to do?"

Slowly, Sam pulls away. There's a chair in the room, and he takes it, sets it against the wall and settles back, knees spread wide. "Come here."

Dean gets up off the bed.

"No," Sam says, firmly, sharply, and Dean freezes. "Crawl."

He sees Dean swallow, shudder. "Yes, master," he whispers, and slowly kneels down again, crawls across the room. Sam watches him, undoing his pants and pushing them down a little, taking his cock in hand. He kind of wants to just throw Dean onto the bed and fuck him, whenever this happens. It would satisfy Dean, maybe. He'd love it. He only ever gets fucked when they're together like this -- the rest of the time, they're just brothers, and Sam is pretty sure no one else is allowed to do that to Dean. A pulse of jealousy goes through him at the thought, but he squashes it.

Fucking isn't enough, though. Dean needs to be broken open, used. He needs to be reduced to nothing, punished, possessed, and then he needs Sam to build him back up again. That's harder. More satisfying, too.

Dean looks up at him expectantly, kneeling between his legs. Not touching.

"Good boy," Sam says, and gives in to the urge to reach out and caress Dean's cheek. Dean makes a soft noise, lips parting, and turns his face into it. It hits Sam hard, that little affectionate gesture -- Dean would never do this under any other circumstance. "I want you to just stay there. Stay still."

Dean looks confused. Sam starts to stroke his cock, slowly, rolling his thumb over the top to spread precome. He shakes his head.

"I don't want you to touch me. You haven't earned that."

"Master..."

"Quiet," he says, still moving his hand slowly. If he went for it too fast now, if he -- he has to stay in control, keep this at his own pace. He can't let himself rush, or be rushed. Dean needs him to be entirely in control, of him and of himself.

Dean closes his mouth again. He looks up at Sam, though, his eyes confused, wondering. He needs to know his place, when they're like this. Needs orders. Sam wonders if it's Dad's fault -- making Dean such a perfect little soldier.

"You're going to stay there. Just like that. Don't move. Until I come. And when I come, Dean, I'm going to come all over your face, see you covered in it."

Dean trembles. His back straightens a little, he nods, once. "Yes, master."

"You're going to look so good like that, aren't you?" Sam says. "All mine."

"All yours," Dean echoes. His cock is harder than ever, Sam sees, precome glistening at the tip, smearing a little against Dean's skin. Dean looks better now, less lost. He understands his place in the world right now, what he needs to do. That's what he gets out of this -- moments away from the world when all he has to do is obey. Sam didn't understand, at first, but now he does. It's hard, in the real world, it's so hard, hard to know what's right, what's good. Here, Dean can be sure, take away the assurance that he's been good, that he's been punished for what he did wrong.

Sam would hate it, if he didn't like the way Dean looks when he's completely undone so fucking much.

"Good boy," he says, gently. He likes the shudder that runs up Dean's spine when he says that. He strokes himself a little faster, already trying to think, plan ahead. How he's going to make Dean tremble and cry out, how he's going to push Dean beyond himself and into the space where everything's okay. He bought a couple of new toys since the last time -- he's acquired a habit of doing that. While he isn't allowed to possess Dean, while they're just brothers, sometimes he just can't keep the images out of his head. So he goes and buys new things for Dean, imagines how he'll use them.

He pushes his hips up a little, moaning just a little, and Dean makes a soft wanting noise.

"You want my cock, don't you?" Sam almost-whispers. "You want to suck me. You want to make me feel good."

"Yes, master," Dean says, looking up. He might not beg with his voice -- not yet, this is too early -- but there's a greedy slant to his mouth, a light in his eyes.

"No," Sam says. "You don't deserve it. Do you want me to tell you what I'm going to do to you, this time?"

"Yes," Dean says, swallowing a little. "Tell me, master. Please."

"I'm going to handcuff you to the bed, like I did last time, when I fucked you. Do you remember how hard I fucked you? I could see the marks of my fingers on your hips afterwards. I bet they stayed for days, didn't they?"

"Yes," Dean says, in a soft voice that almost doesn't sound anything like himself. Sam smiles.

"This time, I'm going to give you better marks, marks that will last longer. I bought some new toys to play with, Dean. I'm going to use a crop on you. I'm going to use it until you beg me to stop. I bet you'll get so hard from it, won't you? I might even let you come from it."

"Please," Dean says, almost a gasp. Sam guesses how that hit him in the stomach. It felt that way when he first saw the crop -- like a kick in the stomach, like a spike of heat. Worse and better than the first time he saw Dean on his knees.

"I'm going to make you cry," he promises. He can't help but stroke himself faster now, rubbing his thumb firmer over the tip and squeezing himself. He feels like he could come just from the thought of Dean all spread out on the bed, marked all over his skin, tears streaking his cheeks, hands handcuffed to the bed... "God, Dean. You're going to be so _pretty_."

"Sam," Dean says, whimpers. That makes Sam's stomach clench with want -- god, he wants Dean all the time, so much, but when he sounds like that --

"You want my come on your face, Dean?"

"Yes, master," he says, his voice cracking, breaking. "Please. I -- I need it."

Sam bites his lip hard, stroking himself faster. He can feel Dean's breath on his skin, warm and shaky. It makes him want to squirm. He keeps steady though, twisting his wrist a little. "Close your eyes," he says, and when Dean has, he lets himself come, lets his hips jerk up. It takes him in a rush, leaves his head reeling, and he's glad he made Dean close his eyes -- if he saw this, if he saw the look on Sam's face which is surely wild and desperate and just as lost as Dean's -- if --

He pants hard, tries to rein himself back in. When he's ready, settled back in the chair, when he thinks he can manage to speak again, he reaches out to touch Dean's hair.

"Alright, Dean," he says, softly. He can see how Dean shakes at his touch, wanting so much -- he's seen Dean come without being touched, just because he's so turned on by all of this, like he's a teenage boy all over again and so desperate. He strokes Dean's cheek a little, where there's no come marking him. "I want you to touch yourself."

"Sam, I'll... Master, I'll come," Dean says, but he's already wrapping his hand around his cock, shaking hard at his own touch, a spurt of fresh precome slicking his cock and his fingers.

"That's okay. I want you to."

Dean groans and closes his eyes again, his head bowing.

"No."

His head snaps up immediately, his eyes opening. "I'm sorry, master."

"Get yourself off as fast as you need, Dean. But I want to see your face while you do."

Dean often tries to turn his face away. He knows how he breaks open like this, and as much as he wants it, well, Sam thinks he must fear it, as well. He's so buttoned up tight, normally, so repressed and in control, cocksure and confident, like he's ready for anything. The shell is easy for him, it's like clothes to cover nakedness. He can be naked easily, he knows his body is beautiful. Sam's not sure he realises how beautiful he is like this, though, how gorgeous he is when he's truly naked and he's breaking right open.

"Good," Sam says, softly, and meets Dean's eyes. "Make yourself come, now, Dean. I want to see you."

Dean moans softly, the sound crawling right under Sam's skin, and jerks himself off fast, rough, worrying at his lip with his teeth. "Ah -- master -- "

"Go on. As soon as you want."

Dean's eyes flutter shut for a moment, but before Sam can order him to, he opens them again, looking up at Sam. He holds Sam's gaze as he comes, shuddering hard and choking back a cry, and his eyes are questioning -- _is this alright? Am I doing this right?_

Sam would love to answer, reassure, but he knows that it can't be that easy. Dean has to earn it. He doesn't look away, doesn't make any movement, just meets Dean's eyes steadily. And when it's over, he looks down at Dean's cock, at the come on his skin.

"Taste it for me," he says, and watches Dean shudder again. He does as he's told, smearing his fingers through his own come and then licking it off them. He keeps his eyes on Sam's while he does it, still.

"Good," Sam says, again. He stands up. "Get on the bed."

Dean doesn't hesitate at all now. He gets up in one quick smooth movement, moves over to the bed and arranges himself, already holding his hands out for the cuffs when Sam gets there. Sam cuffs him and then pauses, using a cloth to wipe Dean's face clean.

"You're being so good," he says, and cups Dean's cheek, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

"Yes," Dean whispers.

Sam smiles and leans down. The first kiss is soft, Dean's mouth yielding under his, opening already. There's something about that that always makes Sam a little rough, forcing his way into Dean's mouth when it would yield, pushing his tongue in, biting at his soft lower lip. Dean moans at the biting, shudders running all down his spine. Beautiful.

"This is the crop," Sam says, when he pulls back, and he shows Dean it. Dean's eyes widen, but Sam can see that he's already getting hard again, already looking forward to it. He nods slightly and lays the crop down just there, where Dean can see it. "Keep looking at that."

"Master," Dean whispers, acquiescence, acknowledgement. His eyes drop, fix on it. Sam is already getting hard again, too. It's like being caught in a spell, doing this to Dean, seeing him like this. He's never known anything to be so much of a turn on. It's partly because Dean is so open to him, so open to everything, so vulnerable. Sam can't deny that he actually does want to hurt Dean, see him cry, break him open. Only if he allows it, only like this -- but still. And another part of it is because it's wrong. They shouldn't be doing this, they _don't_ do this, normally. The lure of the forbidden. It's as simple and as complicated as that, sometimes.

"So beautiful," Sam says, running his hand down Dean's spine. His skin is mostly smooth, roughened and thickened in places by scars. One scar is still soft, new, pink and tender, and Sam leans down to trace that with his tongue. Dean takes in a sharp breath, and Sam smiles. He runs his hand over Dean's ass, teases for a moment at his entrance, and smiles when Dean's legs ease further apart, almost on instinct. "One day," he says, leaning closer again, so that Dean can feel his breath as well as his touch, "I'll lick you here. I bet it'll be such sweet torment. So much, so sensitive, yet it won't be enough. I'll lick you there until you're begging for my cock."

"Sam, master, please," Dean says, all in a breathless rush. Sam ignores it.

"That would be fun, wouldn't it? And I bet you'd look so beautiful. Maybe I'd have to put a mirror there, where the crop is now, so you could see yourself." He pauses, caressing again, careful, and then draws his hand back and delivers one quick, hard slap. Dean's hips jerk, and Sam reaches around to wrap his hand round his half hard cock, squeezing a little more firmly than he really should. Dean whimpers. "Do you want the crop now, Dean? Do you want to be punished?"

"Yes, master."

"I want to fuck you, afterwards," Sam says, letting go of Dean's cock. He slaps him again, hard, once or twice, enough to bring the beginnings of a pink mark on Dean's ass. Not bright enough, not as bright as it will be. But a beginning. Dean is rocking his hips, whimpering.

"Yes, master, please."

Sam waits.

Dean catches his breath in a noise like a sob. "Please, Sam, please, the crop -- master, please. I deserve..."

"Yes?"

"I deserve to be punished."

"Good boy," Sam says, caressing Dean's ass lightly, slapping him one more time to make him jerk. He makes a little broken noise that makes the throb of want increase. Sam resists the urge to linger, to do more, to give Dean anything more or anything different to what they've agreed. He goes round and picks up the crop again. "Choose a safe word."

"Impala," Dean says, promptly.

Sam wants to roll his eyes at that, but he doesn't. He reaches for the crop, noting how a quiver runs through Dean the moment he touches it. "You don't ever want to disappoint me again, do you?"

"No, master. Please... Hurt me, punish me. Make it go away."

He almost hates for a moment that Dean needs this to make guilt go away. But at least he has this, at least he _can_ make the guilt go away -- Sam sure as hell doesn't know how to get rid of most of his guilt. Sometimes, this helps. Giving Dean what he wants, needs. It almost makes up for how much of a bitch he's been to Dean sometimes, how much he alone has put Dean through. But not really. Not ever. And there are debts he can't ever repay, too.

"Please," Dean whispers again, and Sam nods.

"Ssh. It's okay. Try to stay still."

"Master," Dean says, cracked, wanting, breaking, and Sam hits him hard with the crop. He's ashamed of how much harder he gets hearing Dean's little choked and pained cry, but he's not the only one who gets off on this, of course. Dean is rocking his hips, whimpering for more, and Sam makes him wait a few heartbeats before he hits again. The sound is amazingly loud in the little room, a sharp crack, and Dean's cry barely covers it. Dean is whispering pleas, his fists clenching hard in the bedding. Sam hits him again and again, raising welts, reddening the skin. He hits the same place five times in a row and Dean cries out louder, cries out Sam's name.

"Do you want to come from this?"

"Yes, master, please, I need," Dean says, and Sam's not honestly sure if he's really answering the question. He watches Dean tense for the next blow.

"You can come now or when I'm fucking you," he says, clearly, as Dean writhes in frustration, waiting for the crop. "You choose."

"Master," and he sounds nothing like himself now, nothing like his daytime self, this is the Dean that only Sam should be allowed to see, whole and entire and completely naked in front of him. Sam hits him hard again, again and again, and a part of this is anger, because this Dean should be his, should be his all the time. He shouldn't hide himself away.

There are tears on Dean's cheeks by the time Sam stops, and he's begging for Sam to fuck him. Sam grabs the lube, slicks his fingers, and pushes two fingers into Dean at once, almost before Dean has had chance to realise he's not being beaten anymore. Dean's back arches, the handcuffs rattling.

"I'm going to fuck you now, remember?"

"Y-yes, master, please, I want, I need..."

Sam twists his fingers hard. "You didn't come."

"Wanted to wait until you're inside me," Dean says. He's moving his hips a little, trying to push back onto Sam's fingers, clenching around them. As much as Sam wants to let him, he can't.

"Dean," he says, warningly, and with a frustrated noise, Dean stops.

"Please. Don't do that, just... Just fuck me, Sam, master, want you in me. Need you in me."

Sam reaches over, slides his fingers through Dean's hair. "Shush. It's okay. I'll get there. I promise."

"Please," Dean whispers again. There are tears on his cheeks again, still, and Sam hates that he finds that such a complete turn on. He shoves another finger into him, twists them hard, rubbing hard against Dean's prostate. His hips buck and he tightens up around Sam's fingers, making a sobbing noise again. "Please, now. Please, master, now."

God, Sam loves it. Hearing him like that, seeing him so desperate. He loves it far too much. He pulls his fingers out quickly, moving up on the bed behind Dean, slicking his cock. He has to keep this slow, though, keep this a tease. He can't let Dean think this is too easy, even after the beating. He's got to keep that control, keep walking that line between giving Dean what he wants and needs, and making him wait for it. He rubs the tip of his cock against Dean's entrance, smearing precome and lube. "You want my cock?"

"Yes! Yes, master, please, inside, need, please." Dean's back arches again, but he doesn't push back, not too much. Sam pushes in, just a little, opening him just that little bit. He gives easily, like he wants to take him in all at once, hold him inside and never let go. "Please. Deeper. Please, need you."

"Ssh," Sam says, running a hand over his side, soothing, smoothing. He slaps his hip lightly. "I'm the one in charge, remember."

Dean takes in a deep breath, holds it, lets go. "Yes, master," he whispers, holding himself as still as he can. He's still shaking, still needing, but he's as still as he can get. Sam slowly works himself in deeper, rocking his hips, giving and then taking away. Dean makes a little whining noise. "Master -- "

"Ssh," Sam says again, and then he's shoving in hard, pushing all the way in, burying himself deep. It feels so fucking good. Dean is so hot around him, so tight, and the noise he makes... Sam feels like his stomach is molten, like he could come right now, pleasure furling through him thick and glorious. He rocks his hips again, shallow little thrusts, rubbing against Dean's prostate and making him cry. He's crying, Sam knows, knows the exact catch in Dean's breath, the exact way his body opens when he's finally let go of everything. He wants to reach forward and touch the tears on Dean's cheeks, but right now, he can't. He's got to let Dean cry, he's got to just give him this.

Most of it is giving, after all. That's the important thing -- giving Dean an out, a place to be himself, the pure self underneath the thick shell. Tomorrow, he'll be so _free_, so relaxed, somehow set free of his burdens. They'll stack up again, but when it gets too hard, he'll come to Sam again. He'll give himself to Sam again, his real self, and Sam will make it alright.

He wishes he could do this all the time.

"So good, Dean," he whispers, rocking his hips, pressing in deeper. "So good. You want it harder? You want more? You want me to fuck you so that tomorrow you can't walk without feeling the memory of me inside you? You want that?"

"Yes, master," Dean whispers, head bowed, his shoulders shaking. "Please."

"Okay. You can come whenever you want, okay? I want you to come for me. I want to feel you."

"Y-yes, master."

Sam rubs at Dean's side again, the most comfort he's really allowed to give. Leans down and brushes a kiss over the small of Dean's back. Then he takes hold, digging his fingers into Dean's hips, pulling out and driving back in, shoving himself in so deep, so fast. Dean cries out, arching his back again, his head coming up. He pants audibly, squeezing hard around him.

"Please!"

Sam leans down again, biting this time, biting hard and feeling Dean shudder. He fucks Dean hard now, just like he wants, so that it's just close enough to pain. So that he's rubbing up against all that sore and beaten skin. He'd touch Dean's cock, jerk him off, but then he thinks Dean might come too soon, and he kind of wants this to last forever. Him and Dean, together, open, giving and taking. Dean, really and truly himself, Dean, breaking open. It's so beautiful. Sometimes, Sam wishes he could paint it.

Nobody could ever capture it.

He fucks Dean as hard as he can, now, breathing fast, moaning, praising him. He's not even sure of the sense of what he's saying, but it's all true. _So beautiful, so good, so tight, so hot. So good, Dean, you're so good. So good. All mine. All mine, right now, aren't you? Mine, always, mine, mine._

He wants to write those words on Dean's skin, engrave them down deep, on his bones. Wants them carved on Dean's heart. His name, and that he's good, so good, so beautiful.

He needs Dean to know.

It's more beautiful than ever when Dean comes, arching, crying out. He comes hard, clenching hard around Sam, shaking all over and almost collapsing. Sam thinks that maybe it's only his grip on Dean's hips that keeps him up at all. He shoves in harder, trying not to come from just the tight heat. He wants to wait, keep control, and make Dean feel, make Dean know, how hard he always makes Sam come.

God, they're so fucked up, and it's so _good_.

When he comes, he digs his fingers in, rakes his nails over Dean's skin. He feels Dean shudder, hears him cry out, almost before he's aware of it -- it's so much, overwhelming, like a fucking tidal wave, and Sam surrenders himself and goes under, growling mine and always and _Dean_.

It was always weird, afterwards, at first. Dean was always so open, so vulnerable, and Sam didn't know what to do. He knows, now. He knows Dean. He pulls out of him and lies down beside him, pulls him close and holds him tight. It's almost strange, to hold Dean like this. Dean should be the strong one. But he knows how selfish that is and he doesn't mind, now, being the strong one, feeling Dean's wet face pressed into his shoulder. He holds Dean tight while he pulls himself together. At first he wanted to talk about what they'd done, about how good Dean was, but he knows better than that, now, too.

"We've got a hunt tomorrow," he says, and his heart aches a little that Dean won't let him kiss him, won't let this be about lovers. But it's back to brothers, now. Just brothers, even though Dean has Sam's come inside him, leaking out of him. Even though Dean has Sam's marks on his skin. Even though they're still holding each other as though they'll never let go.

Brothers can do that, too.

Sam runs his fingers through Dean's hair, making it stick up. "I found something, while I was out. Something about the spirit that came to this village -- well, town, but it _was_ a village -- when the first settlers came here. We have to -- "

"Sam," Dean says, softly. Very softly, his voice still cracked, breaking. He squirms a little and brings a hand up to Sam's mouth, places his fingers on Sam's lips. "Not yet, okay?"

"Dean -- "

"Master," Dean says, again. It's not quite the voice he has when he's being fucked, used, owned, but it's close enough. He gives Sam a look that would be pleading, if they were still doing that. "Just... stay for now."

"What does this -- "

"Don't ask what it means," Dean says, and he sounds tired. "I don't know. Just don't end it yet. I'm not ready for it to end this time."

"Okay," Sam says. "Whatever you want."

Always, always, whatever you want.

He holds Dean tightly, and Dean curls against him. He really doesn't know what's going on, but this is nice. This is enough, for now. He has his brother, warm and safe, and for now, still his. Still open, still Dean, the Dean only he sees. It's good, it's amazing. Sam closes his eyes.

"I love you," he says, without really meaning to.

"You too, you big girl," Dean says, face against his shoulder again. There's the brief pressure of a kiss. "Now shut up, please. We can talk about this in the morning."

"Promise?"

"Promise."


End file.
